The Boy is desperate to make friends. Maybe unusual for those with autism, he loves the company of others. He just goes about it all the wrong way most of the time. Other children are fairly intolerant of being touched, stroked, prodded and having objects shoved into their faces. And that's when he's in a good mood...
Yesterday The Cousin came for a sleepover at The Grandmothers. The Cousin is a few weeks younger and they've always shared a bond, although they don't see each other often enough. The two of them just get on in a way The Boy can't with other people. And the main reason is that The Boy decided some years ago that The Cousin is hilarious. Completely hilarious.
It doesn't matter what it is he's doing. Brushing your teeth has never been funnier. Putting on a pair of shoes? A moment of hilarity not seen since we first discovered Simon's Cat. The pair of them giggled and laughed all day and all night. Yesterday The Boy wet himself seven times, a personal best even by his standards. Each time because he was doubled up, laughing uncontrollably. Like a coward I've hidden the last two outfits in the car, there's only so much washing I can ask The Grandmother to do in a day...
So this morning at the end of breakfast (The Boy even managed to sit through the entire twelve minutes with The Cousin at his side), The Cousin looks forlorn and then slumps forward with his head in his hands.
"I don't want to go home. Can I stay another night. Please. I want to stay with The Boy. He's my favourite."
So get the washing machine on, eh Gran. Turns out being the parent of the popular kid in town is as lovely as it sounds.
This blog is about bringing up The Boy. He's 12 years old and autistic. It's written by The Dad. It's my words, my view. Other people will think differently and have different opinions. Good.